


your need grows teeth

by alamorn



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, hurting and recovery, there's a lot of blood but no graphic descriptions of injuries, vague internalized homophobia but not that much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-02
Updated: 2017-01-17
Packaged: 2018-09-14 03:10:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9157615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alamorn/pseuds/alamorn
Summary: There is something that Credence never told Mr. Graves. The man he thought was Mr. Graves. The man who cupped his skull and slapped his face.Some of the wounds he healed for Credence were not from Mary Lou. Whenever he woke from lost time, he would find deep gashes around his fault lines, like a cheap toy put poorly together. He did not tell Mr. Graves that he did not know how he got them, just allowed him to smooth them away.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you like to listen while you read, [here](https://playmoss.com/en/alamorn/playlist/your-need-grows-teeth) is the playlist.

There is something that Credence never told Mr. Graves. The man he thought was Mr. Graves. The man who cupped his skull and slapped his face.

Some of the wounds he healed for Credence were not from Mary Lou. Whenever he woke from lost time, he would find deep gashes around his fault lines, like a cheap toy put poorly together. He did not tell Mr. Graves that he did not know how he got them, just allowed him to smooth them away.

But now, there is no Mr. Graves — or whoever the man was — and the wounds are worse than ever. They ring his joints, seeping dark blood, and Credence does not know where he is. He barely knows _who_ he is.

Keening, because there is no one to make him stop, he rocks on his knees. The floor beneath him is slick, damp cement and in this half-lit space there is only his whimpering.

No. There is another noise — labored breathing behind him, the crack of a dry throat being cleared, then, “This is a new look for you.” The voice is familiar, too familiar, and Credence rears around like he’s been slapped again.

There, pressed against the wall, is Mr. Graves. Not Mr. Graves as Credence knows him, impeccable and powerful, like magic made flesh. No, this Mr. Graves is gaunt, his clothes tattered, his hair wild and missing patches. This Mr. Graves’ breath wheezes in and out like he’s breathing around a broken rib.

This Mr. Graves frowns, eyebrows knitting together. “You aren’t him, are you?”

Credence crawls forward to peer at the man, who still seems to have his own gravity. He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all.

Mr. Graves pushes himself up, propped against the wall. “You’re bleeding,” he says, as if his own fingers are not bent the wrong way, as if he is not breathing like a battle between lungs and air.

The reminder makes Credence’s wounds throb, but he is well used to ignoring pain. “You’re hurt too, Mr. Graves,” he says, finally.

Mr. Graves glares at him, but there’s no energy to it, just a resignation that is as uncomfortably familiar as the first sound of his voice. “How do you… You knew him. While he wore my face.” It isn’t a question, except for the jump of his jaw muscles.

“Yes,” Credence says, instead of explaining. “How do we get out of here?”

“How do we— how did you get _in_ here?”

Credence shrugs.

 

It’s a box. No doors. The first Mr. Graves — Grindelwald, the current Mr. Graves insists, teeth gritted — apparated in. Credence does not know how to apparate. Mr. Graves has been drained of his magic.

In the end, Credence grasps Mr. Graves’ hand and shoves magic through his skin. It burns them both, and Mr. Graves looks…not frightened, but disquieted. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls Credence tight, and then there is a terrible great pressure and a pop as they stumble into a living room littered with books.

Credence sways with the release. Mr. Graves _drops_ , wheezing. He starts to heave and gag and Credence goes to his knees to try and help him — at least to keep him upright.

Mr. Graves spits up bile and pushes Credence’s hands away, gets to his feet and stumbles across the room into a small kitchen, where he sticks his head under the sink and turns the water on full blast.

“Check the pantry,” he tells Credence as he shakes the water from his hair.

 

They don’t talk as Mr. Graves determinedly shovels all the food from the pantry into his mouth. Mr. Graves eats as if he is fueling a car, as if he cannot taste what crosses his tongue. He eats quickly and methodically, and with an unfocused look of fury. Credence says nothing, and tries not to bleed on the table.

When Mr. Graves has eaten enough that his hands are not shaking quite so badly, he looks Credence over, more carefully. Credence feels bare before him, but it does not matter so much, now. All the city has seen what he is, underneath, what is one more? Even, especially if the one is this one.

Mr. Graves licks his lips. “There should be bandages in the bathroom upstairs.” He does not say, _I don’t have enough magic to heal you_ , but Credence can hear the words anyway.

“Are you going to tell the others about me?” Credence asks, not moving. He does not want to be attacked again. The bolts of magic hurt more than the belt. At least he expected the belt.

A muscle in Mr. Graves’ jaw jumps and jumps and jumps. “No,” he says, finally. “I will not.”

Credence nods, and goes to the bathroom to get the bandages.

 

The house — it must be a brownstone — is interesting. For one, Credence has never been in such a nice place. For another, it displays so clearly the way the other Mr. Graves — Grindelwald, his name is Grindelwald — overtook the true one’s life. His signs of passage are like scars on the walls.

Credence peers into each room. The ones that the other Mr. Graves did not use are orderly, almost painfully so. The ones that he did are torn apart, ruined. The wallpaper has been slashed in the bedroom, clothes spilled out of dressers. A casual cruelty, inflicted for no purpose but amusement.

Credence does not linger any longer, but gets the gauze and iodine and carries it down to Mr. Graves.

The man does not seem to have moved since he left, still sitting rigidly, staring at nothing. When Credence clears his throat, Mr. Graves turns to him and says, “Where are you hurt?”

Credence thinks for a moment, tries to be aware of his body. “Everywhere,” he says, after a moment.

Mr. Graves sighs. “Take off your shirt. Let’s start with the hands.”

He feels that terrible pressure again, like he’s going to apparate away. That would be a relief.

Instead, fingers shaking, he unbuttons his coat, his vest, his shirt, pulls off his undershirt, exquisitely aware of the scars littering his back.

Mr. Graves makes a small noise, as Credence bares his flesh. Distress, maybe. Shock, maybe. Bared to the light, his wounds are reminded of their pain.

They are half scabbed on his wrists, his elbows, his shoulders, but they pull open again as he strips, and his knuckles never stopped bleeding. When he pulls the undershirt over his head, he can feel a gash over each vertebra. There is dried and drying blood on his neck from the hinge of his jaw.

He flexes his toes in his shoes as Mr. Graves stares at him, stunned, and feels the scabs there crack.

“My God,” Mr. Graves whispers, looking at him, face even paler than before. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Credence doesn’t know how to respond, so he doesn’t. After a moment, Mr. Graves shakes his head and gets up, fills a large bowl with hot water from the sink, and pulls a dishrag from a cupboard. “Are your legs like that too?” he asks as he rolls his sleeves up, hissing in pain, and washes his hands.

“Yes,” Credence says. Mr. Graves does not complain, though his breathing still has not eased, and his fingers still have not straightened.

“Then take off your pants, too.” He glances over his shoulder at Credence. “I hope you’re not shy.”

He is, and even though this day has been wretched and confusing and unending, he is still shamefully attracted to Mr. Graves. The idea of being naked as Mr. Graves touches him is enough to make his fingers start to smoke once more.

“You’re an obscurus,” Mr. Graves says, as if the words do not weigh down his tongue.

Credence clenches his fist, scabs popping, and his fingers turns back to flesh. “Yes,” he says. “So I’ve been told.”

Mr. Graves sits down again, turning the chair so Credence could stand between his knees if he wanted to. He very badly wants to. He doesn’t.

Mr. Graves frowns. “If you want to do it yourself, go ahead, but let me get your back, at least.”

Credence chews on his lip, but he can’t reach his back by himself so he shuffles obediently into place between Mr. Graves’ spread thighs. His stomach roils and he has to clench his hands very hard to keep them from smoking.

There is a sound of sloshing water behind him and then the rag is on the nape of his neck. The contact and the heat together are a shock and he flinches as hot water runs down his back and starts to soak his waistband. Mr. Graves hushes him gently as he runs the cloth down Credence’s back.

The cloth is rough and the cuts sting but it is the tenderness of the touch that Credence wants to flinch away from. Mr. Graves touches him like he doesn’t want to leave bruises. The other — Grindelwald, he reminds himself — always touched Credence like he was trying to leave a mark, stake a claim.

Credence had liked it, had mistaken it for kindness, but the contrast now makes him shudder.

“Did I hurt you?” Mr. Graves’ voice isn’t soft, or kind, but his hands still.

“No,” Credence says.

It’s a long moment before Mr. Graves begins again, as if he is gauging Credence’s truthfulness. When he begins again, Credence can feel his skin rippling up into gooseflesh.

“I don’t know how to cover this.” Mr. Graves voice is even enough that Credence does not even feel nervous at the words.

“Then don’t.” Credence is not sure who is talking through his mouth, cold and hard. It is certainly not the same man as the one under his skin, arching and aching for every swipe of Mr. Graves’ hand.

Mr. Graves hums, a sound that does queer things to Credence’s belly. “Turn,” he says. “Give me your hand.”

When he is facing Mr. Graves, he can see how the man is diminished by his time in captivity. He is using only his thumb and first two fingers as he works the dishrag around the knuckles of Credence’s left hand. The other two fingers are unnaturally bent. The arm he isn’t using is braced against his ribs as if to hold them in place. His skin is a deathly pale that only makes the bruises under his eyes a more violent blue.

And still, he is gentle as he washes away the blood on Credence’s hand and wrist, as he moves up the elbow and then the shoulder, and Credence has to bend down to bring it within his reach, and their faces are very close together.

A madness overtakes him. Credence touches Mr. Graves’ face with the hand that has not been cleaned of blood, fingertips sliding into place against his jaw and tilting Mr. Graves’ chin up. Mr. Graves holds very still, except for his eyes, which dart between Credence’s own, searching for something.

Credence kisses him. Stubble burns his chin, and Mr. Graves’ lips are chapped. Credence is not sure how to kiss, so after a moment he pulls away again, face hot. Mr. Graves did not move the entire time, and when Credence is well away, he just blinks.

Then he says, with a voice you could bend steel around, “Did he make you do that?”

Credence takes a step back, and Mr. Graves’ fingers clamp hard around his wrist, trapping him. “No,” he says. “I just wanted to.”

Mr. Graves tilts his head and he looks, for a moment, totally inhuman, about to strike. “I don’t even know your name, obscurus.”

Oh. No, he doesn’t. “Credence,” he says. “Barebone.”

Mr. Graves snorts, an ugly sound, but his grip loosens. “Barebone. Appropriate.” He doesn’t elaborate, but Credence knows what he looks like, bones pressing against skin like they’re trying to escape.

After another moment, he begins to clean Credence’s other hand. Credence doesn’t mention the blood he left on Mr. Graves’ cheek, just watches from beneath his lashes as Mr. Graves works the cloth around his fingers.

The water in the bowl is a deep red at this point. His blood is darker than normal. The magic in him corrupting it, he supposes. They don’t talk as Mr. Graves finishes washing out the wounds on his torso and cleans them with iodine and wraps what he can with gauze.

When he’s done, he dumps the bloody water and refills the bowl and gets a new cloth. He’s shaking again, a tremor he tries to hide by keeping his hands close to his body. “If you’re not willing to take your trousers off, you can clean up in the bathroom. I’m going to lie down.”

He heads for the couch in the living room and throws himself down. Credence looks through the cupboards and fills a glass with water, sets it down next to Mr. Graves before he goes to the bathroom and finishes cleaning up.

When he gets back out, the glass is empty and Mr. Graves is asleep, twitching uneasily. Uncertain and exhausted, Credence curls up in the armchair across from him and goes to sleep as well.

He dreams of pain, and wakes to it too.

On the couch, Mr. Graves is passing a hand over his ribs and sweating.

“Do you need more magic?” Credence asks, and Mr. Graves jerks and swears.

“I have my own,” he snaps.

“Do you?” Credence can’t feel it, from across the room, but he can feel the look Mr. Graves throws him.

After a moment the expression sags. “No. He poisoned me. It’ll work its way out, but my magic is. Limited. At the moment.”

“Do you want mine?”

“You shouldn’t be able to give it to me.”

Credence shrugs. Magic shouldn’t be real in the first place. He’s not sure there _are_ rules. He walks over and takes Mr. Graves’ hand and _pushes_. Mr. Graves makes a noise, his eyelids sliding down half mast.

The skin of his palm feels tight and hot, almost sunburned, and Mr. Graves’ skin feels stretched and overheated under Credence’s fingers as he pulls away.

“You are extraordinary,” Mr. Graves murmurs, flexing his hand. His fingers right themselves as Credence watches.

A wave of heat rises through him and he has to bite his lip to stop himself from saying something stupid. Or doing something stupid, like kissing Mr. Graves again.

Mr. Graves presses his hand to his ribs once more, and there’s a crack. He wheezes and then his breathing clears and he grins, brilliant and triumphant. “What would you like healed, Credence?” he asks.

Credence gives him his hands. He can’t keep the smile from creeping onto his face — Mr. Graves isn’t grinning, quite, but there’s an energy about him that there wasn’t before, a tidal wave of cheer and hope and a certain pride that he hasn’t been broken beyond repair by what was done to him.

Credence gives him his hands and there is a tingle and then nothing. Mr. Graves frowns. The tingle starts again, then morphs into a burn. Credence snatches his hands away and Mr. Graves swears.

Credence clutches his hands to his chest — there’s a a blister forming where his thumb meets his palm and the cuts seem cauterized, rather than the healing Mr. Gr — Grindelwald gave him, which was painless and left no marks.

Mr. Graves runs a hand through his hair. “Damn. I’m sorry, Credence.”

Credence flexes his hands, feels the pull of the new scar tissue. “I’ve healed by myself before. I’m sure I still have the knack, Mr. Graves.”

Mr. Graves grimaces. “Still. Do your bandages need changing? I feel I must make it up to my savior in some way, at least.”

Credence runs his tongue along the edge of his teeth, uncertain and aching. He wants Mr. Graves’ hands on him, wants to be held down and assured he has a body, so he says, “Yes, please.”

 

Mr. Graves sits on the toilet, lid down, water running in the sink. There is a pile of clean rags beside him. He watches Credence strip with heavy lidded eyes. Credence cannot read the expression, cannot tell what is there versus what he hopes is there. He goes down to his shorts and tries not to be conscious of his knobby knees.

Mr. Graves talks as he works, voice low and soothing as his words are anything but. _What did he do to you? What did he do with my body? Do they know it wasn’t me? How long has it been? Is he still alive? Did he get away?What happened, what happened, what happened?_

Credence can’t, won’t answer most of them, but Mr. Graves doesn’t expect him to, hardly pauses between questions.

When he is done, with the bandages, with the questions, he rests his wrists on his knees so his hands hang down, and he stares down at them. “They didn’t notice,” he says, eventually. “Replaced by a madman, and they didn’t notice.”

Credence hesitates, then slides his hands into Mr. Graves’ hair to push his head back so they can make eye contact. Mr. Graves’ hands have been all over his body, so it does not feel like an imposition, just a continuation. “Mr. Graves,” he says slowly, “I am sorry that I did not get to meet you before this. You are…nothing like him.”

Mr. Graves huff a laugh and gently pulls Credence’s hands from his face. Credence tries not to feel like he’s been punched, but his fingers start smoking and he has to hide them behind his back. “You _are_ a kind boy, Credence, if a rather bad liar. I can see how you look at me, you know.” Credence casts his eyes immediately to his toes. Mr. Graves tilts his chin back up, kind, inexorable, irresistible. “When I look at me, I see him too.”


	2. Chapter 2

There is little and less to eat in the house after Mr. Graves demolished the pantry when Credence first freed him, so Credence watches Mr. Graves get ready to go out and get food.

Mr. Graves’ razor is as wicked as the man himself, the blade a sharp slash of silver, the handle dark etched wood. Credence perches on the edge of the tub and watches hungrily as Mr. Graves tilts his head and the blade moves smoothly up his neck. _Swish, swish_ , the flick of foam into the basin.

Credence waits for blood, not sure if he wants it or fears it, but Mr. Graves’ hands are steady and sure, and not a drop is spilled.

His hair is still a mess, but he does not touch it, just turns to Credence and says, “Would you like me to shave you as well?”

Credence is already well aware that he is a monster, but if he had not known, the wave of heat that rises up in him would tell him. It is fear, for sure, but that is the least of it. And Credence is done being ruled by fear.

He bares his throat. “Please, Mr. Graves.”

The corner of Mr. Graves’ lip curls up, a snarl or a smile, Credence isn’t sure, but it is gone so quickly that it hardly matters.

Credence does not flinch as foam is whisked over his face, Mr. Graves gentle around the scabs by his ears. Credence keeps his eyes fixed on Mr. Graves’ own. If he looks away something horrible will happen. Reality will reassert itself. Smoke will pour from his eyes. Mr. Graves will slit his throat. Credence does not look away.

Neither does Mr. Graves, as he sharpens the blade once more. The sound of razor on strop brings Credence’s shoulders back until no one could fault his posture.

Mr. Graves lays a hand on Credence’s face, pushes it to the side until he can feel his skin stretch. Mr. Graves is close enough to bite him, and it is tempting to let his eyes slide half shut, to allow this to be done to his body with no witnesses.

He keeps his eyes open. Mr. Graves breaks eye contact, his gaze just a little south, on Credence’s fluttering pulse point.When the razor touches his skin it feels almost like a benediction. A baptism, welcoming him to his new life. He’s a witch now, and surely that means God will no longer have him.

He wonders if this is how the Devil takes souls, with a heated glance, a firm grip. He wonders if he cares. He wants to whisper, “ _Do it_.” He wants to turn his neck into the blade.

He holds still.

Mr. Graves’ hands are as sure and steady on Credence as they were on himself. He does not even break the scabs.

Credence does not shut his eyes until Mr. Graves towels him off. It feels like a thread has been cut and he slumps, trembling.

“You’re such a good boy, Credence,” Mr. Graves half hums. “So bold. But you would have to be, wouldn’t you, to live so long with such power in you. Please remember, though, Credence. I am not him.”

Credence has to stare up at him, open mouthed, ready for communion. He forces himself to close his mouth, to swallow. “I gave him my throat, Mr. Graves. He was not near so kind.” He stands, crowding into Mr. Graves’ space. Mr. Graves does not give ground, even though their noses are mere inches apart. “I ask that you remember something as well, Mr. Graves. He did not catch me. As you have not caught me. I am here, Mr. Graves, but I could be elsewhere, and you could not stop me.”

Mr. Graves’ pupils are huge, swallowing up the soft brown of his eyes. Credence can feel his magic in his veins, and for once it does not feel like a monster, but just like part of him, as unremarkable and astounding as the constant flow of blood.

Mr. Graves licks his lips and says, voice hoarse, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

 

While he’s out, Credence changes the bandages around his knees. They’ve soaked through, while the rest of his scabs haven’t broken as badly. The cauterized cuts on his hands and wrists are still the same, shiny and thick. Experimentally, he lets one hand turn to smoke, then pulls it back to flesh.

The scars remain the same. He goes to smoke up to his shoulder. Sensation is strange. He has a diffuse awareness of the smoke, a feeling where feeling should be. A promise of pressure.

He thinks of Mr. Graves’ dark eyes and heavy hands, and, gasping, becomes flesh once more.

Uneasy, filled with a jittering energy and no outlet, he paces the house as he waits. Mr. Graves could be fetching the witches and wizards right now, ready to hurt him, punish him.

If he had not killed Mary Lou, he’s sure she would find that — not funny, for she found nothing funny, but fitting. _Even Satan’s minions want you dead,_ she would say. _Look how kind I was. I let you live. I fed you. I tried to beat the evil out of you, but I did not try to kill you. You were better off with me. And how did you thank me? Murdered me and ran to the Devil’s concubines_.

He picks through the books still on the shelves — hundreds of titles and not a Bible in sight — and bites back a laugh. He can still run, now. He fled them before. He can flee them again. He will not regret Mary Lou’s death, not for a second.

He traces his scarred knuckles and pulls a book from the shelf. He is not a strong reader, but even if he were he would be taken aback by what he sees. The words that he recognizes are framed by ones he doesn’t, in contexts he can’t understand, but he hardly notices _that_ when the pictures are dancing before him.

A tiny ink cat scampers from page to page as he flips through. When he stops, it starts to wash a paw, unconcerned, made of spare lines and dark ink and utterly insouciant. It looks like a cat. It looks like the soul and idea of a cat. Smooth curves and slippery movement.

Credence lets his finger hover over it, afraid to touch, and it shoves its face at his fingertip. He half expects it to burst from the page, in either a splat of wet ink or as a fully formed cat, but it remains where it is. He rests his fingertip on the page and watches the cat butt at it. Nothing.

Despite that there’s a curl of warmth in his chest and he finds himself smiling. “Hello,” he says. “How are you?”

It opens its tiny mouth, but no sound comes from the page.

Instead the door slams open, and Mr. Graves calls out, “Credence, breakfast!”

Credence whispers, “Goodbye,” and sets the book down carefully, to avoid jostling the cat.

In the kitchen, Mr. Graves is waving his hand and eggs and bacon are making themselves. Credence watches, hungry. He’s not sure whether for food or magic.

As they eat, Mr. Graves says, “I will need to get in touch with MA — with my colleagues soon.” He might as well be made of marble. “He would…brag that they had not yet noticed my…replacement. They know now, though, and they will be looking for me.”

Credence stares at his plate, stomach suddenly too tight to bear additional food. “What are you saying, Mr. Graves?”

“Tch!” Mr. Graves’ cutlery clatters to his plate. When he speaks, though, his voice only wavers on the edges, emotions bit back and firmly managed. “I’m not saying anything. I’m giving you your head. Is there anyone you would be comfortable with me contacting? Do you want me to give you a head start so you can run?” His voice goes low and quiet, intimate, his hand covers Credence’s. “Credence,” he murmurs. “You saved my life. I will not punish you for that.”

“Oh,” Credence says. “There was…Tina. Her name is Tina. She was kind to me.”

“Goldstein?” Mr. Graves asks.

Credence shrugs.

Mr. Graves sighs. “I’ll give her a call later, when she’s more likely to be home.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “She has a sister, a Legilimens, so she’s not. Secure.”

“But she is _safe_ ,” Credence insists, half a question.

Mr. Graves flicks an amused look at him. “Safe as houses, Credence Barebone.”

Credence recalls the way buildings tend to crumble around him and his lips curve into a tiny smile.

“Ah,” Mr. Graves says. “Well. Do you want more to eat? I find myself wanting to wash months of captivity from my skin.”

“Take your shower, Mr. Graves,” Credence says and starts to clear the table. Mr. Graves scoffs and waves a hand — the plates shiver and stay in place. “Keep your magic,” Credence tells him. “Dishes are easy enough to do.”

After a moment Mr. Graves nods and disappears up the stairs and the shower goes on, water clanking through the pipes. Credence paces for a while, listening to the creak and rattle, but he is drawn up. He lingers for a moment in front of the bathroom door. It is so thin, the sounds so clear through it. He can tear apart walls, streets, buildings, a thin door would be nothing. He presses his hand to the wood, thinks of Mr. Graves on the other side, under the water.

His fingers are smoking, and the smoke is trailing to the gaps between door and frame. He can picture the water rolling down Mr. Graves’ skin perfectly. He wonders if Mr. Graves would let him lick it off.

Mr. Graves would not. If he was lucky, Mr. Graves would only kick him out. Credence draws himself back into bone.

There is a bedroom next to the bathroom, and Credence finds himself drifting into it without meaning to. It’s a guest room, stacked with books and dusty. The narrow bed creaks under him when he kneels on it. He does not press his ear to the wall to listen to Mr. Graves but it is a near thing. He does press one hand to the wall, face a few inches away, intent.

He does not allow himself to think of what he is doing. If he thinks, he will burn up with shame. If he thinks, he will flee. Instead, he lets himself picture what is happening.

Mr. Graves is not making much noise, or at least nothing that he can hear over the water. No singing, or humming, or cursing, or muttering to himself. Credence imagines Mr. Graves with his head tilted up into the spray, eyes closed. The water will slick his hair back so that he looks more like himself, or the version of him that Credence knew. The water will run down, from Mr. Graves’ furrowed brow to his thick neck, his strong shoulders, his nipples, ribs, flat belly and — Credence hesitates, then thinks, _yes_ , and continues. The water will roll over Mr. Graves’ cock, his powerful thighs.

Credence does not know what Mr. Graves’ cock looks like, but he is certain that it is as attractive as the rest of the man, even diminished as he is. Do wizards circumcise? Credence doesn’t know much about uncircumcised cocks, and now is not the time for an intellectual exercise, so he pictures Mr. Graves cut, thick and heavy with blood.

There is a bang _CRASH_ from the bathroom and Credence panics, bursts into smoke and blows through the wall, shooting over and across the city and pops back into his body in the middle of the zoo.

It is empty, but when he grips the bars of the lion enclosure he can feel the thrum of magic in iron, telling it what shape it’s supposed to be. He leaves blood on the metal when he lurches away, looking for something he can’t name. The cauterized scars aren’t bleeding, but everything else is. Blood is seeping from under his nails.

His ribs feel like knives and each joint is cut meat rubbing against cut meat.

He needs to hide.

He finds a nook near the rattlesnakes and shivers and bleeds and counts his breaths.

When his panting is starting to even out into breathing, he can hear footsteps approaching. He looks up, eyes aching, and Mr. Graves crouches to meet his gaze.

Mr. Graves’ hair is still damp, the collar of his shirt soaked. Credence can’t read his expression, but he can see his own reflection in Mr. Graves’ eyes. His eyes are pure white. He blinks frantically, fluttering on the edge of panic once more.

“How did you find me?” he asks, voice thready.

Mr. Graves’ lips twist. He holds out his hand, where the skin still looks sunburnt. “Your magic led the way.”

Credence absorbs that, lets his gaze shift past Mr. Graves to the two women behind him. The brunette he recognizes, Tina, shifting awkwardly, hands together and twisting. The other, blonde, is looking at the snake and smiling. She turns her head and says, “Don’t worry, honey, we’re here to help, not take you anywhere.”

“ _Queenie_ ,” Tina hisses as Credence blinks.

“How — how did you…?”

Mr. Graves stands up with a groan and offers Credence his hand. “She’s a Legilimens.” Credence stares, uncomprehending. “She can read minds. Not _too_ rude about it, though.”

The blonde waves a hand at them and looks at Credence. “Let Mr. Graves help you up, honey, he likes to feel useful.”

Mr. Graves rolls his eyes but leaves his hand out until Credence takes it. Mr. Graves pulls him up, but pulls too hard, as if he expects more weight, more resistance. Credence lurches into him, chest to chest, belly to belly, hands still clasped awkwardly between them. Credence remembers what he had been thinking, so shortly before, and nearly bursts into smoke once more from sheer mortification.

When they are disentangled, Credence can feel the heat in his face, and he ducks his head down to hide it. Mr. Graves uses his thumb and forefinger to pull up Credence’s chin, gentle, gentle, and says, “Now what did you go and run away for?”

His hand is still on Credence’s face and Credence is white hot with embarrassment. Behind Mr. Graves, the blonde says, “Oh, _honey_ ,” with laughter in her voice.

It’s not meant cruelly, probably, but Credence is blushing so hard he’s surprised he hasn’t melted. He wants the ground to open up around him, but not in the way it normally does.

Before he can hunch any further into himself, the blonde — “You can really call me Queenie, honey,” — steps in, forcing Mr. Graves to release him and back up. “Hey, Mr. Graves,” she says over her shoulder, “You should go help Tina with the obliviations.”

Mr. Graves flicks one last look over Credence, head to toe, then goes, lips pressed flat together. Queenie takes Credence by the arm and leads him to stand in front of the rattlesnake exhibit. The snake is curled up on a stone, sunning itself, and does not even bother to look at them.

“I’m no Parseltongue,” she tells him as if he should know what that means, “but I can get a pretty good sense of what they’re thinking. It’s usually not much, but that’s true of a lotta people too.”

It takes Credence a few tries, but eventually he says, “Are you mocking me?”

“Oh no, honey. If anything, I’m making fun of Mr. Graves. We’re very happy he’s alive of course, but if you’d told me a few months ago that he couldn’t identify a crush if it slapped him in the face, well. It’s not funny to you, but maybe it will be soon.”

She turns to face him. She has a soft face, kind and with a smile always hovering at the edges. What a mother should look like.

“Oh, I’m not cut out to be a mother, can’t keep my head on my shoulders, me.” She chews on her lip as he gawps at her. “Sorry, it’s hard to stay out, when you’re thinking as loud as you are. Stop me if I’m being too forward, but…Credence, would you like me to take away your worst memories?”

His thoughts tumble over each other. _Can you do that?_ is first, then, _yes,_ then, _what am I without my worst memories? They are all I have, all I am._ She waits patiently, doesn’t respond to any of them.

“No,” he says eventually. The word feels heavy on his tongue, like it’s cutting his lips. “No. I don’t think I would be the same person without them.”

She smiles at him. “Then do you want help making some better ones?”

“Ah —“ He’s blushing again and she laughs at him.

“Mr. Graves thinks you’re _very_ charming, by the way. He’s very embarrassed by it.” She taps a finger against her lips, thoughtful. “I wouldn’t push though. He’s got a lot to process right now. Things are gonna move fast.”

Before he can say anything, before he can even truly gather his thoughts, she goes, “Oh drat. I shouldn’t have said that. Well, you have a right to know. He’s gotta let MACUSA know about him now. Se— Madame Picquery’s gonna be mad enough already that he waited. If you don’t want to come forward, Teenie and I can hide you, but Se—Madame Picquery’s not a bad person.”

Credence tilts his head at her.

“I’m not trying to make excuses!” Queenie says. “I just don’t want you to think that what you saw is what she’s like all the time. You don’t have to be ready to give her a chance, just. Don’t write her off, okay?”

She waits for him to nod.

“Okay, do you want to come forward with Mr. Graves or do you want us to hide you?”

He licks his lips. _You don’t have to be afraid anymore_ , he reminds himself. _You’re strong, now_. “I’ll come forward.”

Queenie beams at him. Her smile makes the gray day seem brighter. “Don’t you worry, honey. Me and Teenie and Mr. Graves will look out for you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating change! If you don't want to read smut, stop reading at "I am not good with words."

Seraphina Picquery meets them in her office. Even flanked as he is by the Goldstein sisters, and with Mr. Graves’ hand clamped tight over his shoulder, he has to fight the urge to tremble.

Madame Picquery barely seems to notice him. She casts a swift, evaluative glance, and then focuses on Mr. Graves. Dressed as she is, in a heavily embroidered gown, a headdress that makes her look like a statue of an old goddess, a pagan one, one who demands blood, Credence can barely look at her.

Mr. Graves can barely look away. “Sera,” he says, voice hoarse, hand flexing on Credence’s shoulder, and her mouth opens. She rises from her desk, eyes wet.

“Oh, Percy,” she says, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I should have known, I should have —“

Queenie tugs Credence and Tina out of the room to wait in the hall. “Don’t be nosy, Teenie,” she chastises, and before Tina can do more than roll her eyes, she says, “I _know_ , Teenie, but I don’t _try_ ,” and Tina subsides with a pout.

Queenie claps her hands. “I’m gonna get us drinks for while we wait. Would you prefer coffee or tea, Credence?”

“Tea,” he says. She goes and comes back, presses a mug into his hands, another into Tina’s and they settle with their backs against the walls. Despite the thinness of the walls, Credence can’t even hear a murmur of the voices he knows are in the room.

“Silencing spell,” Queenie tells him. Her toe is tapping, a soft _clickclickclick_ of anxiety.

“Can you hear them?” he asks her. Tina winces behind her mug and Queenie grimaces.

“I’m trying not to. You got any questions about magic you want answered? Teenie’s really good at that kinda stuff!”

Every question he’s ever had about magic evaporates from his skull. “Ah, no,” he says and stares at his toes. Even if he could remember his questions, he would prefer to ask Mr. Graves. Ms. Goldstein is probably a good teacher, but…

He doesn’t blush, even when Queenie looks at him knowingly.

The conversation dies after that and they wait in silence until the door slides open and Mr. Graves waves them back in. Neither Mr. Graves nor Madame Picquery shows any sign of tears, but there is a damp spot on the front of Madame Picquery’s gown, as if Mr. Graves rested his head on her ribs and wept.

Mr. Graves’ hair is mussed, as if she had woven her fingers through it, but it is hard to tell if it is truly any different than when they arrived. He still has not cut it, and the bald patches make it lay wildly. When Mr. Graves catches him looking, he passes a hand over his hair that does nothing to flatten it.

“So, Credence,” Madame Picquery says, with the poise of a queen. “It seems I owe you an apology. And you owe me a promise.”

Credence drags his eyes to hers, bristling, skin prickling. Under his bandages, his cuts spring open but instead of bleeding, he can feel the magic starting to seep from him, thick and heavy and writhing with anger.

Queenie makes a noise of distress behind him and Mr. Graves takes a step towards him, but Madame Picquery waves him off, dark eyes glittering with amusement.

“I am sorry, Credence Barebone, for what was done to you. Both at my word, and before. I hope that we can work together to make your world kinder from this point forward.” She steps closer to him. A jewel at her throat seems to pulse with an unearthly light. “Will you accept my apology?”

From this distance, he can see that her eyes are rimmed just the slightest bit with red. His magic curls back under his skin. She is hurting too, even if she is not rolling over and showing him her belly, her wounds. Looking at the steel in her spine, he doubts she has ever shown anyone her belly in her life.

He runs his tongue along his teeth. His magic is as much a threat to him as anyone else, he is reminded as his back grows damp with blood. He can run, but how long, how far? “What promise do I owe you if I do?” he asks, ready to rabbit.

“You must learn your magic, and control it. If you cannot, we must remove the obscurus,” she says. “As a woman to a man, my heart goes out to you. As President to obscurial, no matter my sympathies, the safety of my people comes first.”

A rushing fills his head, broken only by a steady dripping. When he looks down, blood is seeping from beneath his nails and splashing to the floor. The blood is thick and black. Inside, he feels hollow, as if his meat and organs have been replaced by a swirling storm of dark magic.

Still, he keeps his form. If he opens his mouth, black smoke will billow out. He is a thin skin over the monster of his magic. _See?_ Mary Lou hisses in his head. _You horrify even these abominations against God. You are the worst monster the world has ever seen_.

“That’s not true!” Queenie bursts out. She’s before him suddenly, between him and Madame Picquery. “You’re not a monster and Sera doesn’t think you are!”

It’s not until Mr. Graves’ hand lands on the back of his neck that he can breathe again, though. He pulls in a gasping breath, feels himself become solid and heavy once more.

Madame Picquery watches it all with her head tilted to the side, left hand raised to press a finger to her lips. Her rings glitter as she lowers her hand.

“You _can_ control it,” she murmurs. “Good. And I’m sure it will get better.”

“A test?” he says, touching the hinge of his jaw. His fingers come away wet, but they were wet when he pressed them there.

“Isn’t everything?” she asks, with a grim little smile. “So? Do you agree to my terms?”

“Ah — yes.” He presses his sleeve to his jaw to keep the blood from dripping down his throat.

“Percy will take you to the infirmary, he needs to get checked over as well. Once you’re not bleeding everywhere, we can discuss specifics.”

Mr. Graves guides him out of the room with the hand on the back of his neck. Disoriented, Credence lets him. Tina follows them. Queenie remains behind.

Slowly, Credence notices that Mr. Graves is sweeping his thumb against the back of Credence’s head. His palm is so wide that it covers Credence’s neck from hairline to collar and his fingers curl around past the muscle of his neck to where Credence’s tendons are popping out as he swallows convulsively, trying to get the taste of magic out of his mouth.

Tina takes one look at them, mutters something vaguely apologetic Credence doesn’t catch, and flees. Mr. Graves doesn’t let Credence look after her, uses his fingertips to make Credence look at him. “It’s not often Sera’s impressed,” he murmurs.

Credence licks his lips and can’t stop himself from noticing that Mr. Graves tracks the movement. “Was that her version of impressed?”

Mr. Graves’ smile is razor sharp and just as thin. Here and gone in the same moment. “She was also happy to see me. Come, let’s get you to the infirmary.” His hand drops from Credence’s neck and he strides off.

Credence hurries after him. From this angle he can see that Mr. Graves’ hand is covered in his blood. He’s not sure how to feel about that. His blood was only ever metaphorically on the other Mr. Graves’ hands. He finds he prefers this. It’s honest.

“Mr. Graves, your hand,” he says, and Mr. Graves pauses his stride to glance at his palm.

“Just blood, Credence.” He favors Credence with another of those razor sharp smiles. “I’ve had worse on my hands.”

 

The infirmary is clean and empty, save for a spindly man that unfolds from a desk in the back.

Credence finds himself wondering what types of injuries and illnesses require an infirmary when magic can so quickly manage the kind of everyday hurts that have ruled Credence’s life for so long. Then he stops wondering. It is not a train of thought that will bring him any comfort.

The long, thin man’s magic doesn’t change his wounds anymore than Mr. Graves’ did, but he pushes his glasses up his nose and says, “The President let me know you were coming. You’re the obscurus, yes? It’s trying to protect you by fighting off other magic. Like an immune system.” Then he pushes a box filled with clean bandages and antiseptic into Credence’s hands and says, “Change them every two hours or if you bleed through. Try not to make it worse. Come back if you need more.”

Then he forces Mr. Graves to take a seat and runs his wand up and down, muttering to himself the entire time. Periodically, his wand glows and Mr. Graves shifts in his seat. After a while, he slips his wand back into a pocket of his vest, pushes his glasses up his nose and declares Mr. Graves in good health. “Now go see a barber. There’s nothing I can do about that mess on your head,” he sends them off with.

Mr. Graves pushes his (clean) hands into his pockets as they leave the infirmary. Credence almost feels bereft. He didn’t _like_ his blood on Mr. Graves’ hands, of course, but it felt…right.

“Good man, if you don’t try to make him have a conversation,” Mr. Graves says.

Credence is fairly sure the same could be said about him, so he says, “How’s your magic, Mr. Graves?”

Mr. Graves holds up a hand and sparks crackle between his fingers, then sink back beneath his skin. “There,” he says so tightly that Credence does not ask again.

 

Queenie was right, when she said it would move fast. It moves so fast Credence has to count his fingers and toes every morning, to make sure nothing’s been blown off with the rush.

After the infirmary, Mr. Graves passed him off to Tina and Queenie, who got the paperwork for him being part of the magical world in order. There were great stacks of it, ranging from questions about his age, his parentage, his living situation to questions about his first magic, his favorite color, if he has ever felt particularly connected a certain place or person.

Before they were done, Mr. Graves blew back in and dragged him off to try out wands. Every single one he held blew apart in his hands, so Mr. Graves said, “Wandless it is,” and took him to a padded room that smelled like old sweat and tried to make him cast over and over.

When he got frustrated he shattered a wall, so Mr. Graves took him to get hot cocoa and they talked over a lesson plan at the cafe. The lesson plan involved an hour with Queenie a day, just talking. After a week of running back and forth, a week of Mr. Graves cleaning his wounds and repacking them every two hours, Madame Picquery saw him again.

Their talk lasted five hours, and Credence came out feeling like his brain had been scooped out and dropped back in with critiques written in red ink scrawled across the wrinkles. He wasn’t _unhappy_ with the conditions of his acceptance into the magical world, she’d been as fair as she could, but she was smarter than him and harder than him and more self-assured than him and every conversation with her gave him great sympathy for railroad tracks, trampled over and meant to be.

And that was all without mentioning the nightmares. Not his. Mr. Graves’.

Mr. Graves woke every night screaming. He woke Credence too, since he was kindly allowing Credence to stay in his brownstone.

Every night, Credence brought in a glass of water and set it next to Mr. Graves’ bed as Mr. Graves sobbed into his hands. Every night, Credence tried to think of something to say and failed, and sat at the foot of the bed instead. He sat close enough to touch, but didn’t. He waited for Mr. Graves to stop crying and say, “Thank you, Credence,” voice as even and flat as if he’d never shed a tear.

Every night he said, “You’re welcome, Mr. Graves,” and stood and left and hesitated by the door in case Mr. Graves called him back.

 

After a month, he still can’t cast like anyone else but it doesn’t hurt to turn to smoke and back. His wounds have accepted some little healing so that they don’t crack and bleed anymore. It is time for him to give Mr. Graves his space back, so during his hour with Queenie he asks for and gets a list of places he can rent.

One of the terms Madame Picquery had insisted on was providing a stipend for him, which is an obvious apology for the promise that he never leave the city without an escort approved by her. It’s not a large stipend, but it’s enough that he can afford a small place for himself. None of what’s available jumps out at him, so he takes the list home to look over more carefully.

Mr. Graves finds it right after dinner. “What’s this?” he says, picking up the sheet of paper. “Doing something for Queenie?”

Credence hurries to clear the table, avoiding his eyes. “Something like that.”

Mr. Graves looks more closely at the sheet. His lips tighten and he waves his hand so that the dishes begin to do themselves. Credence leans back against the sink, gripping the edge of the counter and wincing in preparation.

“You want to move out?” His voice is even, no trace of emotion, but a muscle in his jaw is jumping.

“I — I don’t want to impose. You’ve been so…kind. I don’t want to wear out my welcome.” His voice only shakes a very little, which he’s proud of.

Mr. Graves’ brows draw down and his lips tighten. He looks like a storm cloud. “Wear out your welcome? You saved me, Credence. I owe you a great debt. That’s all there is to it.”

“Oh.” Credence is too well trained, now, to let himself melt to mist and seep through the floorboards, but that doesn’t stop the wishing. Instead he looks at his feet. Black boots, still solid. How silly of him to think that there was anything else between them. How silly of him to think that if they had a little room Mr. Graves might start to see him as himself, and not a reminder of what he went through.

Mr. Graves makes a sound of annoyance. “You misunderstand. No,” he clucks his tongue, “I phrased it poorly. I can admit that.” He pushes into Credence’s space but keeps his hands to himself He is not doing anything so obvious or uncultured as fiddling with his clothes, but his thumb sweeps frantically over the knuckles of his clenched fist.

“Forgive me, Credence, and let me try again.”

Credence tears his gaze from the movement of those strong fingers, drags it up to meet Mr. Graves’ own. “I’m listening, Mr. Graves.”

His eyebrows are tucked up and together, sincere as a dog. “I owe you my life, so it is yours, whatever you want to do with it. I am alive, thanks to _you_ , Credence, and not only that. When you pulled me from that pit, I could not see past what was done to me. The rest of them — Sera would have done her best, but she’s busy, she couldn’t govern _and_ take care of a broken down old auror. No one else would have been able to…I wouldn’t have let anyone else close enough to help.”

He takes a shuddering breath, closes his eyes, opens them. “Without you, Credence, I would have died in that pit whether they found me or not. I owe you everything. Anything you want from me is yours.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Credence breathes. “Will you kiss me, Mr. Graves?”

Mr. Graves swallows the end of his name, mouth hot and open, hands hot and pulling Credence close. Nothing has prepared Credence for the way Mr. Graves kisses, but giving himself over to the obscurus is close.

Mr. Graves runs his tongue over the seam of Credence’s lips until Credence takes the hint and opens his mouth. His attention darts from the hands like bands of iron around his hips and waist to the heat of the tongue that slides along his own.

When Mr. Graves breaks away to catch his breath, Credence curls his fingers into Mr. Graves’ shirt and hangs on. His knees are weak, his heart racing. “ _Oh_ ,” he says.

“I am…not good with words,” Mr. Graves says, “but I would like to show you just how thankful I am, and just how much I do not want you to go. If you say stop at any time, I shall.” He takes Credence’s hand in his own and moves it so that Credence’s fingers are twined through Mr. Graves’ hair, the buzzed fuzz of the back of his head soft against Credence’s palm. “If you take your hand from my head, I will stop. If you pull my hair, I will stop. Is this acceptable?”

Credence licks his lips. He can feel his blood rushing in his ears, and there is a heat in his stomach that could be arousal or magic, and either way very present. He nods.

Mr. Graves moves along Credence’s neck, sucking and laving down the arch of his throat. His thigh fits between Credence’s and Credence can’t help but buck against it. One hand is busy unbuttoning Credence’s shirt, then his pants, and when he’s done, he shoves Credence’s undershirt up so that his belly and chest are exposed. He sinks to his knees and Credence doesn’t have a chance to gasp at the loss of the thigh between his legs because Mr. Graves is nibbling on his hip bone.

His fingers tighten involuntarily and Mr. Graves stops immediately, pulls back. “Too much?” he says and starts to pull Credence’s undershirt back down. “I apologize, I just—“

“No! No, it’s —“ Credence has to scrub his free hand hard over his face. He’s suddenly very aware of the edge of the counter digging into his back. “It’s amazing. I didn’t mean to.”

“Ah.” Mr. Graves looks off balance for once, hands resting on his knees. Credence can see his erection tenting his pants and his own erection throbs with a sudden surge of blood. _Mr. Graves wants this too_. “May I begin again, then?”

“Uh — I have. A question, first. Before you — we get any farther.” Inside, Credence is cursing himself, but he has spent so much of his life doing things he didn’t want to, doing things he felt obligated to do, and he does not want to cause that in Mr. Graves. “You said…you said you are thankful. Is that…all?” His voice quivers on the last word, a thin thread of hope that Credence is instantly ashamed of. _Stupid boy, you ask for too much. Take what you can get_ , a voice hisses in the back of his mind. But no, he decides. He is done taking what he can get. He will ask for what he wants.

It can’t hurt any more, at least.

Mr. Graves swallows, and Credence watches his throat bob. To look down at Mr. Graves, he has to look past his own erection, which lends a certain air of the absurd to the whole thing. “No,” Mr. Graves says after an eternity. “I am not only thankful. Will you make me say more?”

_“Yes_ ,” Credence whispers. If he speaks loudly, the moment will break.

Mr. Graves blinks slowly, as if he hopes to open his eyes to a different world, but he stays on his knees at Credence’s feet. “When I look at you, I see the only good that came out of the nightmare _that man_ inflicted on me. When I look at you, I see your throat and I see your power and you have given both to me for no better reason than that you _can_ and that makes me think I must not be such a terrible man as he convinced me I am. When I look at you, Credence Barebone, I see the way you look at me and I like it and it makes me want to be a better man, a good enough man to deserve the way you look at me. I will not say I love you, Credence Barebone, but only because love is not complex enough a word.” He clears his throat, a blush high on his cheeks. “Now, I would quite like to busy my mouth with things other than talk. May I?”

Credence blinks tears out of his eyes and says, “Thank you,” says, “Yes, of course.”

Mr. Graves puts Credence’s hand back in his hair and shoves Credence’s pants and underwear down his hips so Credence’s cock bobs out. He takes a moment to trace the scar where thigh meets hip, then, totally without warning, takes Credence’s cock down to the root and stays there, swallows around it.

“ _Fuck_.” Credence throws his head back and feels his fingers and toes go to smoke, he’s so overwhelmed. Mr. Graves must feel the fingers in his hair change because he pulls back so his lips are just around the tip, his tongue slowly stroking over the slit until Credence is solid once more.

Mr. Graves fits one hand firmly against Credence’s hip so that Credence can’t buck or melt away. Then he continues his assault. When it gets too much, when Credence starts to lose his body, Mr.Graves pulls off and waits for him to come back to himself. During one such break, Credence looks down and sees Mr. Graves steadily pulling himself off. When he can catch a glimpse of the head of Mr. Graves’ cock he realizes he was wrong. Mr. Graves isn’t circumcised.

When he comes, Mr. Graves swallows it down. When his knees give out, Mr. Graves gathers him into his lap, erection pressing into the back of his thighs, not insistent but there. When he rests his head on Mr. Graves’ shoulder, Mr. Graves murmurs into his ear, “Sweet boy, beautiful boy, darling boy—“

When he can feel his toes again, Credence flips over so he’s straddling Mr. Graves’ lap, licks his palm, and wraps his hand around Mr. Graves’ dick. His imagination had been nothing compared to the real thing. It’s thick and curves gently to the side and the extra bit of skin makes his hand move more smoothly as he pumps up and down.

Mr. Graves braces himself on his hands, leans back, and groans, throat exposed. Credence leans forward and gently closes his teeth around the pulse point he can see hammering away. When Mr. Graves groans again, Credence’s control slips. His hand turns to black mist, but Mr. Graves is unharmed. By the way his cock jumps he is more than unharmed.

Curious, Credence tries to continue this way. He still feels the promise of pressure more than pressure itself, but it is only a few short tugs before Mr. Graves is swearing and spilling.

Credence turns back to bone and Mr. Graves lies back, drapes an arm across his eyes and laughs. “I’m a dirty old man,” he says when he’s done. A smile still curves his lips, but there’s an edge of self-recrimination there. “What do you see in me, Credence Barebone?”

Credence ignores the mess, ignores the bunched up clothes, and lays himself down on Mr. Graves’ chest. “That’s a silly question, Mr. Graves. I see you. That’s all I’ve seen for a while now.”

**Author's Note:**

> join me on [tumblr](http://www.alamorn.tumblr.com)


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